Prima
by Ivory Wolf
Summary: The story is told by several women, each a favored protégé in her time. This is about their struggle to achieve the limelight-in more ways than one-what they're willing to do to get it, and what they'll go through to keep it. Yet every exquisite fruit reaches its prime, and afterwards, is very seldom desired.
1. Prologue

**Prima**

 _(of a female), first among equals_

No one ever really plans on being wicked. That much is apparent in the stories we all have been told as children. Rarely does a person wake up in the morning to proclaim war on the masses.

No.

Their actions stem from something dormant, lying within the core of their being; something that can be awakened, begin to stir and remain churning for weeks…months…even years—building and rising until one day it just bursts like an infectious wound, spreading its filth and stench over all in its path. Perspectives sharply pivot.

Calm, rational minds lose their way. The sweetest turned sour. They were provoked, stepped on—driven to it. Sometimes our best intentions can turn out to be our worst ideas—and forgiveness is a forgotten art.


	2. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own Phantom of the Opera; book, film, stage production, whathaveyou.**

I used to adore books. In my younger years there was much reading to be done-whether it was by my mother and father at bedtime or by myself in the idle afternoon hours after dance lessons. Maman was once a young, up-and-coming ballerina until a knee injury barred her from returning to the stage. She then married her long-time admirer, Edmond Giry. Maman's passion for dance never died, however, and so it was passed on to me.

I learned what I could from her demonstrations before attending an academy. The other girls in my class were constantly invited over for tea and cakes after lessons. Occasionally, Papá would entertain us with his stories—classic fairytales and legends of the typical good vs. evil sort. During the parts where the hero would slay his enemy or the fair maid sacrificed something precious of herself, the other ballet girls would be all aflutter. They'd squeal and hug themselves tightly, tiny feet kicking in delight.

"Why is it I never see you as giddy as those other girls at story time?" Papá once asked me.

"Because the boy heroes and lady heroes you talk about are so boring! They're always the same in every story, doing the same things, and you know they always win."

He'd grinned. "And this is a bad thing, ma petit Marguerite?"

"No, I suppose not…but it seems heroes in these stories are always in such a blasted hurry to do away with people."

Papá laughed. "Don't let your mother catch you using words like that. She'll faint dead away."

"I know they thought they were doing the right thing by punishing the wicked, but I wonder if they'd just been treated differently, maybe the awful people wouldn't have been so…awful. Then they would change, and everyone would be good friends in the end!" I concluded. It made complete sense to me.

Papá pulled me into an embrace with one strong arm and sat me on his lap.

"But then, there'd be no story, my girl. It would be dull and over with much more quickly than I think you would like. As you get older you'll begin to notice certain things in a story that perhaps weren't there before."

"Huh? How does that work?"

"It can't be entirely explained. It is something that is felt and understood the more you get involved with the world. More often than not, the 'villain' is hurting. Not the sort of pain from falling down and scraping your knee or a slight headache, but one that takes up residence inside of you and makes itself at home. For some, that pain eventually dissolves. If left unattended, it slowly begins claiming more territory, filling every conceivable crevice until there's no room for anything else."

I didn't quite understand. "Do the heroes fighting them know that?"

"A lot of the time it would seem that they aren't aware. For those that are, well…they do what they can with what they know. Even then, it isn't always enough. Sometimes, you have no other choice than to leave that person to the fate they've spun for themselves so that you can focus on your own."

Papa's tone had sounded rather detached and when I looked up at his face, his eyes bore a hole in the wall opposite him. I wanted to know his thoughts but found myself too nervous to ask.

"And perhaps…" he continued, still lost on whatever memory had captured his attention, "perhaps there's a little more wickedness planted in some of our heroes than meets the eye, and they're not quite the heroes we thought they were."

Before I could dwell on that any further, I was swung up in one fluid motion, held high overhead. I squealed in mild surprise and laughter.

"Still," he said, "I'm glad to know someone is on their side."

Deep, soulful thoughts tucked back into slumber, I was satisfied with his answer. It was simplest at the time.

Shortly before my eleventh birthday, Papá left us.

Needless to say, when the day of the blessed event did roll around it was not the memorable occasion it should have been. The party that had been in the works for weeks was canceled without explanation. Not that one was necessary. Word of scandal strikes quicker than arsenic in one's tea.

For many days Maman did nothing but sit in front of the parlor window in her straight-back olive-green chair. She didn't even bother to look for him or reach out to him in any way. At first, I thought I was to blame—that I had disobeyed him or failed him in some way. Maybe Maman and I didn't show him how much we loved him. Then, I was upset at _her_ for it. Papa loved us. He loved _me_. He wouldn't abandon his little girl. It must've been something Mamá had said or done. It was her fault. She drove him away. As a child, dealing with loss for the first time, any other alternative was unfathomable.

The rumors began their circulation throughout the neighborhood before seeping into the dance academy. I tried my best to focus on my dancing instead of the dozens of eyes stealing glances, and whispers haunting every step. Some girls were sympathetic. Others went to great lengths to avoid me in fear of an awkward encounter. Then there were the few—the older girls—who looked down on me with disdain. Young, impressionable minds injected with venomous judgment by parents or caregivers who were once raised the same way-unreceptive and unmerciful to those touched by the leprous hand of dishonor.

For days, Maman barely said a word. There had been tantrums on my part. I demanded to know what happened, why Father would do such an unthinkable thing. She never relented, never shared a single thought unless it was to correct my behavior or my manners. It was my resolution to quit dancing that broke Maman from her reverie. Her passion for dance lived vicariously through me, and the thought of yet another precious fragment of her life unraveling was too much for her to bear.

Her eyes abruptly left the view from the parlor window the moment the words left my mouth. Dark, sleep-deprived eyes looked at me, really _looked_ at me, for the first time in days.

"What did you say?"

My hands fiddled with the folds of my dress and I focused intently on the view from the window rather than my mother's sunken eyes.

"I said I'm quitting ballet. I wasn't very good, anyway. I'll learn something else."

She stood and grasped my hands as if afraid I'd disappear on her as well.

"Listen to me, Marguerite Giry, listen very carefully. You are my daughter and therefore born with a natural grace and enthusiasm for life that those other silly half-wits can only dream of having. You are a dancer, through and through. Never forget that. You must promise me you won't ever give up on this dream, no matter what obstacles come your way.

I didn't promise. I didn't say anything come to think of it, and she didn't press me for a response. With some reluctance, she'd wrapped her arms around me in a stiff embrace. Whether she was afraid of rejection or at attempting the social norm of maternal sentiment, I don't know. She was always so rigid and had no time to fool around with sentimentality.

I vowed I'd never be like her.

The Palais Garnier was the next venture on my mother's agenda. She'd been in the Corps de Ballet and the managers remembered her with fondness.

"René Barrier was a promising talent, very promising," the first manager informed me.

Monsieur Debienne was a short, rotund man, with a pleasant face and handlebar mustache. His warm and welcoming demeanor put me at ease. His partner, Monsieur Poligny, was noticeably more reserved than his colleague. He was only a couple inches taller and sported dark whiskers and sideburns. He was exceedingly polite and offered every courtesy to us.

"Did she ever mention that she was in the running along with one other dancer for the consideration for Prima Ballerina?" he addressed me.

"You aren't mistaken, Monsieur," Maman cut in. "As fate would have it, however, it wasn't meant to be."

There was an edge in her tone that didn't go unnoticed.

"Yes - that was indeed a regrettable accident," Monsieur Debienne's cheerful manner faltered.

"Well. Let us not dwell on the past. The talent I mean to discuss today is my daughter's."

The next hour was filled with reports of my so-called 'natural' gift for dancing, Papa's abandonment and the humiliating situation it left us in, and Maman requiring a position to support the two of us. It was all incredibly dull business chatter and after memorizing every conceivable detail about the office (including the rather worn, burgundy carpet), I begged the managers' pardon that I might be excused to go explore my new place of study. I figured I ought to learn all I could about this magnificent building as it seemed likely I'd spend an inordinate amount of time in it. I intended to pinpoint every nook and cranny, unearth every possible secret.


End file.
